


A Speaking Likeness

by Leni Jess (Leni_Jess)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: springtime_gen, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-04
Updated: 2011-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leni_Jess/pseuds/Leni%20Jess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco gets out of Voldemort's clutches alive. Now he has to make sure life might be worth living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Speaking Likeness

These days no one entered Hogwarts unannounced. The Aurors sharing guard duty referred unheralded visitors to the Headmistress, but Snape had said dryly, "I shouldn't like to rely on their impartiality, or even their willingness to listen to explanations."

Draco had waited meekly to find out how his protector planned to get around that.

Six months of serving the Dark Lord directly had taught Draco a degree of meekness that disgusted him (as well as how best to avoid the Cruciatus Curse even when obeying orders scrupulously). Neither his aunt nor his former head of house had sympathised when, in the early days, he put a foot wrong. He tried to console himself with Snape's advice – he had come to realise how instinctively Severus Snape taught, in the oddest of circumstances – that the appearance of meekness was all that was required, provided one was a respectably competent Occlumens.

Draco had also learned that information was best shared only when absolutely necessary. He was fervently glad that he had no idea where his mother was (he was convinced that she was alive and had escaped the Dark Lord by the fuss made over her disappearance by both Lord Voldemort and Bellatrix). When he heard that his father had vanished from Azkaban – and again the Dark Lord was profoundly irritated, this time enough to subject Draco to a severe session of Cruciatus – he had refrained even from looking at Severus Snape to see if he could tell whether Snape knew what had happened. If he did it was better Draco should not know, and only thoughtful not to create any impression that Snape might know.

"You will be met," was all Snape said.

He had not said goodbye, nor wished him well, nor given him any messages. He did say, "Remember to keep your mouth shut and your temper under control. Do what you're told. Don't sulk."

All very much what he had said soon after they fled Hogwarts on that night of triumph and horrible surprises. After these months where only Snape's care had kept Draco alive through everything that happened, Draco understood, much better than he had last year, that Snape did wish him well.

Just before Draco Apparated out Snape said, "A _good_ Slytherin thinks before he does or says anything. No matter who he's with."

Draco suspected that meant he would be meeting Potter, and probably Potter's revolting friends, but he didn't feel nearly as concerned about what Potter said and did as he once had. So long as Potter kept his wand off Draco, he could say what he liked. After the Dark Lord's attentions a few puerile insults were nothing, just as last year his feud with Potter had become trivial in comparison with the need to ensure his parents' safety.

It was a cold night, a few days after Christmas. The school – which had stayed open, much to the Dark Lord's annoyance – would be empty except for a few students and some of the staff. The best time for a former student to arrive, if any time was good for someone who had tried to murder Dumbledore and who had certainly succeeded in masterminding a Death Eater invasion of Hogwarts. (Draco was still proud of that achievement, despite his master's sneering dismissal of it, though he was aware he should have thought more about the consequences. He should have known Fenrir Greyback wouldn't care whom he attacked, nor pause to enquire what house a victim belonged to.)

Waiting before the gates was an upright, slender figure in warm robes easily distinguishable from the uniform the Auror beside ... her ... wore.

The Headmistress herself. Draco swallowed, and kept walking.

"Good evening." Her voice was cool, but there was no anger in it, nor in her face when he was close enough to see her in the light of the Auror's wand.

"Good evening, Headmistress." Draco could be cool too, even if his heartbeat had increased alarmingly. After all, she would have had to agree to his presence in her school. He knew more than he once had about how much the Headmaster – or Headmistress – knew of what went on in the school.

Draco ignored the Auror, a sturdy, scowling, but silent presence, who opened the gate at the Headmistress's signal. It was Minerva McGonagall who was important.

As they walked through the school doors and up the stairs and along the corridors Draco kept the hood of his cloak up, hiding his face as well as his distinctive hair, in case they met anyone.

She murmured approvingly, "Discreet."

He did not catch the password she gave to the gargoyle at the foot of the revolving staircase.

Her office looked very different from what it had been when Dumbledore inhabited it. Minerva McGonagall had whimsical woodcarvings instead of weirdly moving toys and instruments, flowers in colourful bowls, and a decanter of what looked like Firewhisky rather than a steaming teapot on the low table between several tartan-upholstered armchairs.

Yet one essential element was the same: the portraits of former Headmasters and Headmistresses ranged around the walls. Draco's eye went, inevitably, to the new one hanging where the Headmistress could see it, whether from her desk or this informal corner, or what he supposed was the doorway to her private quarters. Dumbledore was asleep. Draco thanked Merlin for it silently, and pulled himself together. After all, he hadn't killed the old man, even if he had tried.

McGonagall said dryly, "He hoped to save you."

So they were going to talk about that. Draco braced himself and murmured, as he seated himself at her gestured invitation, "I didn't give him much cooperation. Or – anyone else, either."

He wasn't sure if it was safe to name Severus Snape, even here, which ought to be private if anywhere was. Except for all those dead dignitaries free to listen as they chose, of course. He lifted a hand slightly to indicate those attentive ears. Dumbledore might be asleep, but he could see a good many were awake.

McGonagall said, carefully, he thought, "Anyone would have wanted to help you to avoid what Voldemort would have had you do. Forced you to do, I understand."

"My mother, my father," Draco said quietly. He added, "I thought I wanted to do it, of course. I was very stupid."

"Young men are not the only ones capable of stupidity. You've thought better of it."

It wasn't a question, but she wasn't trying to use Legilimency on him, either. After six months in the Dark Lord's service shielding against any form of prying was automatic. Snape must have convinced her. Draco was grateful, all over again. He had given up resenting feeling gratitude. His life and sanity were more important than any childish notion of dignity.

So he was safely away from the Dark Lord. He supposed he'd be expected to say 'Voldemort' now. Or perhaps You-Know-Who. There would be a price, of course.

"What do you want me to do?"

Better to offer than to have service demanded of him; another thing Snape and Lord Voldemort and his Aunt Bellatrix had taught him, between them.

"You can't become a student again. Enough people saw what happened – what you _did_ succeed in doing – that I couldn't openly accept you again, even if four months of the school year weren't gone by already. Although your actions were never officially acknowledged, either by the Ministry or by the school."

Draco nodded. No surprise that going back was impossible. He was surprised, though, by a wistful passing thought of how very relaxing and _safe_ it would be to have nothing to do but study for NEWTs.

"I understand you are a good Occlumens."

Draco gave her a twisted smile. "My aunt made sure of that."

"Yes. So you've been taught. Could you teach others?"

"I think so. Though I don't suppose you'd want me to teach it as my aunt did me."

She shrugged. "Teaching is easier if the student doesn't resent the teacher's methods, but – whatever works, in the end."

"So who do I teach?"

She didn't answer at once. Then she asked, "Have you heard of Dumbledore's Army?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Potter's little study group? Yes." Then he added honestly, "It gave some students a real advantage in Dark Arts; a pity we couldn't have been asked to join."

She looked amused, but said reprovingly, mouth primming, " _Defence_ Against the Dark Arts."

Briskly she went on, "The study group lapsed last year, but some of the NEWT-level students decided to revive it when school started in September. Our Defence professor supervises, but some of the members went on studying for themselves, beyond the Defence curriculum, and have been acting as tutors this year."

"Not Potter?" Draco was astonished. He would have thought Potter would have found a private army of personal followers quite as useful as the Dark Lord did.

"Mister Potter is not a student this year. He has – taken leave for a while."

"His friends?"

"Miss Granger and Mister Weasley? They too are taking time out from their studies."

She didn't say what for, but Draco didn't expect her to. It was obvious Potter was at last doing something about the task the wizarding world had wished on him ever since he was a baby. Good luck to him. Draco was as dependent on his success as any other wizard in Britain, now.

Draco thought it as well to say so, even if in a roundabout way. "I hope Potter – and Granger – will be able to get back to studying later." He didn't think sitting NEWTs would make much difference to the Weasel's chances of success in life, but he wouldn't say so.

"Then will you teach selected students Occlumency?"

"Yes." He hesitated, then asked, "Slytherins too?" He hoped she wasn't as prejudiced, as Headmistress, as Dumbledore had been.

"In theory that would be fair. In practice it would be unacceptably dangerous – to you as much as to our chances of winning this war."

It might be worth pushing. "Not all Slytherins support the Dark L... Voldemort."

"But can one tell which, infallibly? And whatever their intentions, they'd be vulnerable. I will not take the risk that secrets would be made public, whether deliberately or because a student is trapped or deceived into admissions."

Sceptically he asked, "And no Death Eaters are going to cross-question a Gryffindor or a Ravenclaw if they have one at a disadvantage?"

"Slytherins would be more likely to be able to identify you."

"What, I'm to be the masked avenger or something?"

"No, just a glamour, and a charm to alter your voice – just deepening it a little further should make quite a difference. And a Concealment Charm on the Dark Mark, of course. You look adult, now. You move differently from the way you used to."

That was news. Draco knew his thoughts and wishes were very different; he hadn't realised he'd changed much physically, beyond putting on more weight and muscle as a result of constant exertion. Being a Death Eater had proved to be a remarkably active way of life. He was taller, too, he knew; he didn't have to look up so much to meet Snape's eyes, these days.

"So who am I?"

"Do you have a name you'd prefer? Someone you could model yourself on? You speak good French, don't you?"

That was a broad enough hint. He had visited Beauxbatons students' families with his parents, and knew enough about that school to be able to pretend he had been educated there. No wizard came out of nowhere, but he didn't have to be chatty about his background, either.

"How about Constant?" He hesitated, then deliberately chose the name of a family who had become wizards and witches only three generations ago. Better not to make a point of being a pure-blood. "Constant Roussel."

"Do you know any Roussels?"

Draco explained briefly about the family, and she nodded in approval. It didn't take long to agree a limited personal history for the assistant Defence tutor.

The next half-hour was spent in discussing the teaching methods he proposed to use. At the end of it Draco felt his brain had been drawn through a narrow channel like a wire being turned into nails: heated, compressed, cut sharply, forced into conformity with a mould, utterly changed. The old woman was indeed a teacher, and intended he should be a competent one as soon as possible, whether he wished it or not.

Draco did wish it. Without her support his safety would be at risk again. He couldn't go back to Voldemort. He had fled, rather than been dispatched, though Snape had been careful to arrange it so that he himself should not be held responsible. Draco hoped that care had paid off. He supposed he wouldn't find out until the war was over, just as he wouldn't know if his parents were alive and well unless and until Voldemort had been dealt with. However Potter planned to do that.

* * * *

The first few days of teaching were stressful, and several of his pupils unexpected, but once he and they started to make progress the Headmistress made more demands on him. So far she had maintained the glamour on him, but now she expected him to learn to do so. Somehow she made time in her busy schedule for an hour a day with him, and made him sweat for every moment of it. He had been a reasonable Transfiguration student, but this amalgam of Transfiguration and Charms was hideously difficult to learn.

The occasional comment from the ranked portraits in her office was not helpful, though it was a slight comfort that Phineas Nigellus was, in his sharp way, supportive. Draco was deeply thankful that Dumbledore slept through it all. He found it easier to concentrate if he could sit where he could keep an eye on that portrait. He didn't know what he'd do if the old man woke up, and perhaps even spoke to him. After the last six months' training in endurance he wouldn't fall apart, he supposed, but he'd rather avoid the experience.

However difficult it was, he wanted to learn what McGonagall taught. Away from Snape, or even from his aunt, there was no one he could depend on to take an interest in his welfare. Everything he could do to protect himself he would do, including getting a firm grasp of how to maintain those tight brown curls and the sallow skin that McGonagall had wished on him once he had described the way members of the Roussel family tended to look.

After ten days both of them were confident his hold would not slip.

"That's excellent, Constant," the Headmistress said, approval in the sharp Scottish voice. "Tomorrow you should start learning to develop a glamour of your own choosing, in case it becomes necessary."

Draco was glumly certain it would be, and was thankful to be offered the teaching.

Phineas put in, "He should learn to look like a member of his mother's family. There are Blacks in France and Ireland, just as there's still a Nigellus in Holland."

"Well?" McGonagall's eyebrows indicated a willingness to accept that suggestion.

"Why a relative rather than just some random stranger?"

"Phineas?"

"Madam Lestrange may be the natural heiress of the London house, but she will never gain it, even if my scapegrace great-great-grandson hadn't willed it to his godson. D... that is, Constant is the likeliest heir."

Draco said indifferently, "My cousin Nymphadora Tonks would inherit before me."

"No," Phineas disagreed. "Her parents disinherited Andromeda formally. Her daughter may not inherit. Your mother, however, has never put herself outside wizarding law."

"I don't see the point of this," Draco said, a little impatiently, though he was much more willing to accept concern than he had been a year ago. " _I_ have put myself outside wizarding law. Besides, my father's property –"

"May not remain his," the Headmistress observed. "However, you are not a wanted person, Constant. You may as well consider your own interests, on the off chance that you survive and that we win the war." Her voice was very dry.

"But _Potter_ owns the place!"

"And hates it. He would be glad to wash his hands of it, once he no longer needs it."

"What, is he using it now?"

"Yes."

"You shouldn't tell me things like that," Draco said pettishly. "The less I know the safer we all are." Then he added, "Besides, why should Potter give it up to me, even if he doesn't want it himself?"

The reminder that Malfoy property might be sequestered by the Ministry gave this discussion some interest, though Draco wondered why Minerva McGonagall should allow it to continue. It could not be one she cared about.

Flatly she said, silencing him, "We care for our own. Can we expect the Ministry to do so? I have arrangements in place to assist several people. I will not leave their safety after war's end to chance." He supposed she meant Snape, and wondered who else in Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix might be victimised by the Ministry. She continued, "You are working with us, and I don't believe you will return to Voldemort."

"I couldn't, and survive," Draco said honestly.

She nodded at him. "You may never be able to be yourself, or not for years. You might be able to be a close Black cousin, one to whom, in the absence of other Black heirs, Harry Potter might concede the Black house. He would have to know, of course, but if you do good service I think he will see the justice of rewarding it." Extraordinary. She thought he should be rewarded for doing whatever he must to stay alive? "You at least would be able to find and enter it, unlike, for example, your aunt."

Light dawned. "So it's under Fidelius, and the Order controls it." Hastily he added, " _Don't_ tell me who the Secret Keeper is."

Phineas Nigellus laughed hollowly. McGonagall's voice overrode his. "The Secret Keeper is dead."

"Then the house is inaccessible!"

"Nooo," she said thoughtfully. "Some persons may still be given access to it."

That sounded like Dark magic to Draco, and he had acquired a distaste for that in recent months. On the other hand, a dead Secret Keeper for a house under Fidelius made for a serious degree of privacy. That prospect had charms. He did not believe he would be much loved after the war was over, no matter who won. He could not imagine Potter giving him anything, even the time of day – but if Draco himself was now indifferent to their years of squabbling and spite, perhaps Potter was, too. Draco realised with some astonishment that his many times grandfather and his former Headmistress had between them given him some hope of a life after this purgatory. He had never thought further than to find his parents alive after this was all done with – and Severus Snape too.

He said politely, "Thank you, grandfather, for thinking of my future. And thank you, Professor. Whether any of that happens or not, I should indeed appreciate learning to control how other people see me."

He saw the glint of amusement in her eye, but all she said was, "You need to learn consistency in your choices, and to avoid the unusual. Everyone remembers red hair and green eyes."

"Or very pale blond hair and grey eyes," he capped wryly.

"Yes. Neither is common. When in doubt, brown hair, brown eyes, average height."

"Disappearing in plain sight," he agreed. That sounded highly desirable, whereas once he would have resented the suggestion with every drop of Malfoy pride.

* * * *

Some of Draco's students were far better than others. The Weasley girl and that drifty dishwater blonde from Ravenclaw both seemed to have a natural talent for Occlumency, whereas Longbottom simply plugged along and by sheer stubbornness acquired some skill. All three of them seemed to have strong motivation, and were easier to teach than Dean Thomas and the other Gryffindors, who didn't concentrate adequately, or the Hufflepuffs, most of whom seemed to have a philosophical objection to protecting themselves. The Ravenclaws, as he might expect, treated Occlumency as a delightful game, but Ravenclaws took all mental games seriously, even if none of them could equal Lovegood's facility.

If any of them had known he was Draco Malfoy rather than Constant Roussel, however, he doubted if he could have taught them anything.

He wasn't just a 'stranger', but came from outside Hogwarts entirely; they didn't expect him to have house affiliations, and made no assumptions about him. The view he had of them, too, seemed to have changed; some of them might have been different people altogether from the ones he remembered. That subtly altered viewpoint would have made him dizzy, if he hadn't been focussed on tutoring them to the utmost of their ability to learn.

At the end of a month Draco started running some lessons for small groups, rather than single students, and set them against each other. Everyone found that instructive. Neville Longbottom gained considerable confidence, and hence additional skill, from discovering no one except his teacher, not even Ginny Weasley, could break through his defences.

Professor McGonagall was present during that particular session, and congratulated Longbottom handsomely, while tactfully commending Weasley's ingenuity. Afterwards she commended Draco, too, which pleased him. Once he would not have cared. Now he valued her opinion, and not just because her approval contributed to his safety.

He wondered wryly what his father would have thought of that reaction. But in spite of everything Lucius had allowed Draco to observe, his father must have been much more flexible – especially with Lord Voldemort! – than he might have liked Draco to know. Draco didn't hold it against him. The Dark Lord was mad as well as spiteful and vicious and dreadfully powerful; whatever one did to survive was simply necessary. Draco suspected there were few Death Eaters – and certainly not his father – who felt about their master as his Aunt Bellatrix seemed to. It was a comfort to think, whatever mistakes his father had made in choosing to serve Voldemort when both were much younger, that his father had retained his sanity, unlike his lord and his sister-in-law.

After his pupils had developed some confidence in him, Draco found himself drawn in to the Defence Association's study sessions. He found that he had been well grounded in theory. If it hadn't been for the last six months of practice, however, he might easily have been outclassed. A sobering thought. Potter must have been a good teacher.

He had had evidence of that before, on the train home at the end of fifth year, when he had recklessly attacked Potter and been overwhelmed and jinxed into deep humiliation by these same friends and followers of Potter. Now he wondered how he could have been so very stupid as to assume he would win every encounter. It was not as if he had ever won before. The only time he had conclusively beaten Potter had been on the train when they started sixth year, and by then it had not mattered.

For everyone's sake Draco hoped Potter was less stupid too, if he tried spying again. Perhaps it was for the good of the wizarding world that Draco had caught him and smashed his nose for him. Draco grinned faintly, and at once suppressed it, wondering if Potter acknowledged indebtedness for that lesson even to himself. Right now he needed to be alert for Lovegood's unique approach to jinxing an opponent.

By the start of March some of his students had graduated to Legilimency, which he acknowledged himself far less competent to teach. Those few were eager to learn, and Draco was certainly willing to practice. Anything likely to be useful was worthy of being worked on, and his opponents didn't crucify him for every small advance, as his aunt had done. Bellatrix had been willing enough to teach him Occlumency – he suspected there were some things he knew she was not anxious to share with her master – but her resentment of the slightest hint of successful invasion was enormous, and immediately painful.

While the Defence Against Dark Arts teacher had been a good supervisor and tutor for duelling – and for magical rough-housing – he was utterly useless at both Occlumency and Legilimency. That left Draco and his graduating students as peers, teaching each other. They all improved, by fits and starts.

Slowly they became friendlier, which made it harder for him to avoid confidences. Only the knowledge that they had to be Constant Roussel's and not Draco Malfoy's confidences, however casual, kept his mouth shut, to limit what he had to create and then remember. As Snape had warned him, he reflected. Had Snape anticipated the growth of amiability? Or only potential enemies at every turn?

* * * *

A few days before the end of term the Headmistress summoned Draco to her office. He came after the last session of the day, using a quick but thorough cleansing charm to make his person and his clothing inoffensive. Both Occlumency and Legilimency were extremely physical in their effects, despite being done entirely with the mind. There was enough of Draco Malfoy in Constant Roussel for Constant to wish to avoid sweating in a lady's private rooms.

He was horrified when his customary swift glance at Dumbledore's portrait showed the former Headmaster awake. He managed to keep moving towards the armchair he used for these review discussions, and clamped fiercely down on his unease. Even with someone like the Headmistress, who seemed to think well of him and wish him well, he preferred not to reveal the anxiety this change roused in him.

He managed to accept the glass of Firewhisky she offered him with a steady hand. He took no more than his usual sip, apparently according the single malt its due appreciation, but this time he did not think with equal appreciation of McGonagall's cousins in the wilds of the North, evading the Ministry effortlessly. He hardly noticed the smoky flavour that ordinarily pleased his well-educated palate.

"I have a task for you during the Easter holidays," the Headmistress said briskly.

Most of Draco's best students were staying at school, as many more students were now doing, if only to have the superior shelter of Hogwarts, still safer from Voldemort's raids than anywhere else. No doubt they expected to have some sort of holiday or, more likely, to concentrate on preparing for their NEWTs, less than three months off now.

She expected his consent, and went on, "You have done very well, Constant. Those students are better prepared to protect not just themselves, but their knowledge. There's someone else who needs the skill to hide his knowledge and his plans."

Plans. Draco felt a hollow sinking. He had come around to believing he might not have to deal with Potter.

The old witch caught that all right, and cocked an eyebrow at him. "You can do it," she encouraged.

"Can I? I heard what happened the last time someone tried to teach him."

She shrugged. "Professor Dumbledore expected too much of both of them, wanted them both to learn too many lessons at once."

A calm voice chimed in, "I expected _better_ of both of them."

The Headmistress rolled her eyes. Draco felt his lips quirk, in spite of his near terror, of Dumbledore, not of Potter. There he expected only frustration and the need to exert more patience than should be demanded of any Malfoy.

Apparently he and his father weren't the only ones to think the old man crazy. Not that it was going to stop her from making similarly outrageous demands herself.

He took a deep breath then said, "I'll try. I'll work at it. But he has to as well."

"He has agreed."

Draco asked, "Does he know who'll be teaching him?"

She nodded.

He said with resignation, "Then he's just waiting until he has me under his wand again."

"I don't agree. If common sense doesn't restrain Mr Potter, Miss Granger will."

"And Weasley will do his best to make sure there's a fight to the death as soon as possible."

"You are not the only one who has grown up, nor the only one who's discovered that stress and responsibility change your mind about what's important, what's worth doing."

He looked his scepticism.

Dumbledore spoke again, and this time Draco twisted around involuntarily to watch him. The old devil wasn't twinkling, which was something. "I will still be keeping an eye on Harry, though I don't believe he'll need help to be sensible."

What was this 'still'? How long had the deceitful old manipulator been awake, then? How long had he been observing – 'keeping an eye on' – Draco?

"You'll do it?" McGonagall asked, without apparent anxiety.

"Yes," he agreed resignedly. "Only – Potter and his friends are at the Black house in Grimmauld Place." He didn't say she'd told him that. "If it's under Fidelius, how will I ever find it, and get in, if your Secret Keeper's dead?"

"My dear boy –" Draco found he still hated that geniality – "I thought of that. I spent most of your last year at school dying, you know; Voldemort didn't need to send you to kill me. I had plenty of time to prepare."

Draco whipped around to face the portrait fully, and after a moment closed his mouth. If Dumbledore was going to give him information he'd listen. And examine it with tongs afterwards.

"I created a few spare – passports, one might say. They must be activated, of course; if one was stolen it would do no good."

Handsome of the old wizard to warn him, but no doubt he knew Draco was as much under his thumb as under McGonagall's. It was, or had been so far, much better than being under Voldemort's thumb.

"You know how access under Fidelius works?" McGonagall asked.

Draco agreed he did, but out of his new caution repeated what he had been taught.

She nodded in satisfaction. "Yes. I'll escort you. Friday evening. We can Apparate; so much more convenient than broomstick travel."

Perhaps she would overawe Potter and his friends enough that he would survive being in the same house with them. Alone with them. Oh, Merlin help him.

Dumbledore said, "You'll find teaching Harry will be worth your while – Constant. So would forming a true alliance with him."

"I think I'll keep this glamour," Draco responded wryly. "It might help."

He supposed that if he could learn to be reasonably comfortable with Ginny Weasley, who was an hereditary enemy of his house and whose family was a wizarding disgrace besides, he could be polite to Potter. And the Mudblood girl – the Muggle-born, he corrected mentally. At least she was intelligent, even if she wanted everyone to know it. And even that idiot Weasley, who was by no means as clever or adaptable as his younger sister.

He had noticed girls were generally better able to cope with the major awkwardnesses of life, possibly because their behaviour was so much more regulated. Draco wondered idly if having a sister would have been good for him, then dismissed the foolish speculation. It was too late now, he supposed, though he had also wondered, over the last year, why his father had been content to have one son and no more, in a time of such turmoil. There must be some ground between the single child so common in Death Eater families, and the reckless extravagance of the Weasleys. Something he might ask his mother about, very carefully, some day. Draco was aware he made little notes to himself like that as a way of convincing himself he would indeed see her again.

For that goal he would even ally with Potter. And if Potter was prepared to learn, it would indeed be pleasant, no matter how hard they both had to work, to demonstrate that he had indeed something to teach Potter. In any case, he had no doubt Dumbledore would supervise them both carefully. From some portrait in his cousin's house. Making, and indeed paying for, a true wizarding portrait was not the work of a moment, but if the old man was awake and still plotting, and being heeded, no doubt there would be speaking likenesses everywhere, if the war went on long enough.

If Potter did give him the Black house, Draco decided, he would give Potter his very own portrait of his mentor, in recompense.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Written March-April 2006 for springtime_gen, for desultory6. My thanks to the mod, fourth_rose, for her endless patience and remarkable trust that there would be a story; to my brother for checking the fic out at midnight on demand; and to my beta reader rfachir, who saved me some embarrassment as well as making me feel better about the story.
> 
> Perhaps I should say, Draco wouldn't want a portrait of Dumbledore in his home; he wasn't planning to give it to Harry out of generosity.


End file.
